I guess you could call it
an Indian Summer, though it came on so quickly I think everyone just
went outside and basked in the sun without thinking to call it
anything but welcome. When it snows in mid-October, even here in
northern Minnesota, it catches us all unaware. Sure, it was predicted
but the temperatures had been hanging in at 35-40 degrees and we all
figured a bit of snow would melt quickly. But temps dropped with the
snow and here we were dealing with 20 degrees and six inches of snow.
In a few days the smaller lakes were ice covered and it looked like
winter had arrived.
Low and behold, a couple
of days before the month ended we were treated to a warm spell. The
sun broke out and heated things up to 60 or a little better. The snow
melted, the roads (at least the country roads around my place) turned
to mud and suddenly every vehicle around wore the same brown coat. No
one was about to wash their car until things dried up.
I'd pretty much stowed my
fishing stuff for the year and Gabby and I were happily content
hunting grouse, but sunny calm 60 degree days in November offered a
rare open water angling opportunity. I only had to decide where.
Everyone knows that
muskies feed heavily in the fall to supposedly fatten up for winter.
Or so they say, though it could strain the definition of common
knowledge. I've fished for, and caught, muskie late in the season but
I'm still waiting to hit the feeding frenzy. I recently heard of a
guy who hooked 13 muskies in one day fly fishing, and landed nine of
them. He wasn't in this part of the country but still, I have a hard
time wrapping my head around that. I mean, just when you get to
feeling pretty savvy about your musky skills you hear something like
that.
I figured to slide my jon
boat down the bank into my favorite musky river, motor upstream for
an hour or so and float/fish my way back. That would eat up most of
the short autumn day and I'd still be off the water before dark. No
telling how many muskies I'd hook.
The river was running a
little high and dirty, which I knew it would thanks to the melting
snow, meaning I could run my motor without too much worry of hitting
obstacles or bottom. Of course lower water concentrates the fish and
may mean easier fishing so there's always that trade-off. I've
paddled my canoe upstream during low water periods and enjoyed wading
to mid-river and casting to deep runs at outside bends but I've never
been as far up as I expected to with the jon boat. Part of this trip
was exploratory.

My little 2.5 horsepower
motor puttered me against the current at the comfortable rate. I slowed her down when I knew I was over
shallows and twisted the throttle when it seemed safe. I did hit a
rock in mid-river once – my homemade lower unit guard provided some
comfort but the unprotected prop took the brunt. It wasn't the first
time that motor tangled with rocks and though no real damage
occurred, the leading edges of that three bladed prop are looking
like chair legs the puppy has chewed.
The river itself is a
beauty no matter the time of year. There's a hunting shack near the
road and put-in, but from there upstream it's wild and undeveloped.
You'll have no cell phone service and it doesn't take long to realize
if you have trouble it could be real trouble, but I figured if I
didn't fall out of the boat I should be OK. The bare shoreline
hardwoods allowed a good view into the woods and I kept looking for
wildlife, which seemed missing that day.
I stopped motoring at an
inlet stream that looked too good to pass. My small folding anchor
held while I stood and fan cast the area with a bright 6/0 streamer
on a 10wt intermediate line, to no avail. On the way up I'd seen a
boil of a big fish near the bank and it's wake out in midstream but
didn't stop to try for it, thinking I'd get it on the way back. So
after I poured some coffee and ate a sandwich I pulled anchor for the
float down.
Float fishing from a boat
by yourself is not the easiest thing to do, but the river was good to
me and I could drift and cast a decent way without grabbing an oar
for correction – there was no wind, which helped – although here
and there it seemed prudent to anchor and cast to a run or some kind
of cover be it a fallen tree or rocky shoreline. If anything, I
drifted too fast – my handheld GPS read the current 1 ½ mph –
giving me one shot, and one shot only, at some of the spots I wanted
to cast to. In much of the river you can float down the middle and
reach both banks with a good cast. Then you'll go around a bend and
the river spreads out and widens. If you're fishing the left bank
you'll be looking at the right side and wonder if you should move
over there.
I didn't see the fish hit.
I'd been working the banksides for a couple of miles with no activity
and had pretty much given up the idea of any fish feeding binge.
Lulled into distraction, between gazing into the passing forest, a satisfying pastime in itself, and
watching for any downstream deadheads I was basically going
through the motions. I don't know if I first felt the tightening line
or saw the boil just under the surface from the corner of my eye, but
I do recall making one deliberate long and hard strip set before
losing some line to the musky torpedoing away.
Fighting a big fish is
always fun, that's why we do it, but add the element of standing in a
narrow out-of-control jon boat being turned by a hard pulling fish on
collision course with a brush-lined riverbank and you have the
makings for a mild tragedy or hilarious comedy. Just before hitting
the bank I sat down to avoid being thrown off balance (I once drifted
into a submerged log that stopped the boat dead and I nearly pitched
backwards into the drink) and continued playing the fish.
I ended up on my knees
one-handing the net under the fish and bracing the handle on the
gunwale as a fulcrum to lift. Somewhere along the way I tossed the
anchor and stopped the boat bouncing along the shoreline. The
barbless hook came out easily and I admired the fish still in the
net. Compared to the width of my boat this fish was probably 38,
maybe 40 inches of spotted silvery green firm muscled musky.
Awesome! It was a two-second decision to can the monkey-motion
it would take to get a decent photo, so the net was lowered and this
beauty of a fish swam away with a swish of it's tail. I'd have no
proof to show for the catch, but the experience was all mine and as
right as it could be. I smiled at the thought.
Getting the boat up the
take-out wasn't as simple as getting it down, but thanks to a stout
rope and long winch strap I was on the road for home as the sun went
down. A good adventure and a great memory to be thankful for.